


The Clueless Watson

by Macko_m



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Crime Fighting, M/M, Orientalism, Suspense, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-03-28
Packaged: 2018-09-22 04:56:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 23,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9584504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Macko_m/pseuds/Macko_m
Summary: Holmes and Watson don’t realize the true extent of their relationship. Especially the good doctor has no clue. But he has a dark secret; dark and very lovely indeed.





	1. The Pursuit

**Author's Note:**

> This is an 8 chapter work I wrote some years ago. The third main character in this story joins later on. I am proud to say that he is my own creation. Wait and see if you like him, too.

Watson

He is utterly pale. I must admit that he is pale more often than not, if truth be told he can be the epitome of paleness, and yet, this kind of pallor, with an almost greenish tinge, does start to worry me. He has not been moving for the past two hours, seemingly involved in some kind of meditation, most probably due to the new case he is working on. I have been watching him through a haze of bluish smoke until I suddenly realize that he must have moved, after all, because it would have been impossible to produce such an enormous amount of smoke with only one pipe full. Moreover, his eyes are not as unfocused as I thought them to be, and to my amazement I grow aware that he is staring back at me. 

How long has he been looking at me like this? 

I feel the heat rising in my cheeks, as if he was able to read my thoughts, and clearing my throat, I turn away and hastily grope for another cigarette. But then again, I cannot tell how long I had been staring at him, and I deduce that it is only just for him to reproach me for that, should he feel like doing so, or to simply look back.

Feeling a certain restlessness shooting through my limbs, especially the left arm, I get up from the settee and stretch, yawning as to play down the awkwardness of the feeling of self-consciousness I had just brought upon myself. "You must be freezing," I utter. "You cannot possibly be sitting like this for much longer." I feel a definite hollowness in my stomach, obliging me to add, "And you must eat something."

He merely smiles his most enigmatic smile, the one I cannot read for my dear life, and his eyes light up with an almost fiendish glow for the glimpse of a moment. And again, I feel the heat, and to my utter consternation, I realize that it is not only filling my cheeks, but also a highly familiar lower region. In my distress, I consider asking him whether he has actually been watching me all that time, and what on earth makes him smile like that, but in fear of an honest reply, I refrain from doing so. Used to the familiar habit of talking to myself, which is what it mostly feels like, even when I am indeed talking to Holmes, I continue to chatter. 

"My dear Holmes," I say. "If I can assist you in any way with your contemplation, you know that I am most willing to do so. But I do not think it wise to do so on an empty stomach. Moreover," I add almost desperately, in sight of the scornful smile that is playing around his lips now, "A joint dinner would do no harm, would it now, and it revives the spirits." I expect him to retort that his spirits are heightened enough, and that a meal of any kind would only spoil his astute chain of thoughts, but in contrast to this, he actually unfolds and gives a nod of assent. His smile, however, stays fixed.

There must be something going on that I am not aware of. Maybe I have missed some crucial clues concerning this special case, and he wants me to find out about it all by myself before he has to hold another one of his lectures. But I cannot put my finger on it. Whatever it is, he will finally have to tell me, yet right now I do not feel like begging. In fact, I feel that I am growing more than slightly annoyed by his demeanour, which leaves me at a loss, making me feel even more exposed, and lonesome. 

As soon as our dinner, which we take in mutual silence, is over, I get up from the table, excuse myself curtly, grab my coat and hat and rush outside. He cannot expect me to remain seated like a stupid pupil all night long, while he indulges in the triumph that I will once again not find out about the flaw in my chain of deductions. Huh! We will see. Some physical exercise will do me good, and I will get behind this scheme, in effect I will not come home before I have found out all about it. Full of determination, I head for Soho, planning on a long walk. As soon as my mind is clear, my reason will follow, and I am sure that I will find out all about it.

*

Holmes

I watch him leave. It is a spur-of-the-moment decision on his part, as evidenced by the fact that he did not receive any summons requiring his services as a doctor, nor did he mention his intention to spend the evening elsewhere. In the absence of other factors, this seems to support the assumption that it is my presence and something I did or did not do that has sent him out at this time of day.

I could hardly have missed his agitation. After all the time we have spent together, I pride myself on my knowledge about my good friend. If he is upset, I notice, and nine times out of ten I know the reason. This time, nothing external happened, therefore I must somehow be to blame. I said nothing, therefore it must have been something I did. I did nothing save look and smile at him, which is something I do often, almost habitually. I must assume he is used to it. And so, by excluding all factors, I come to the conclusion that it must have been something I did not do that upset him.

Provided he is upset.

That is the basic assumption in my chain of inferences, and I admit that it may be erroneous. I observed a blush and a restlessness, which may also be attributed to another underlying emotion. He fussed, which he does often, and when I smiled at him, grateful for his concern, said reaction occurred.

Can he possibly be embarrassed for being concerned about me? It would be a new development, and if true, I should have to determine the source of this embarrassment. It would have to be an external source, since nothing happened here that could account for it.

I need more data. When he comes back, I shall get to the bottom of this.

*

Watson 

A crisp northeastern gale hits me in the face, cooling my head instantly in spite of the somewhat protective hat. I have to hold on to my good old bowler lest it part from me in the storm, and yet, without thinking, I direct my steps towards the east. Exposing my face to the strong wind, already mixed with sleet again, with my jaw set and the hand holding the hat growing cold, I find my mind clearing rapidly. What on earth had made me leave like that? I find no reasonable answer, apart from the obvious: Holmes had been looking at me, he had been smiling, and something in his smile had made me angry.

The cold gust is burning on my cheeks, making my eyes burn, too, and I cannot tell whether the tears come from the forces of nature only, or whether there is something else that makes me cry. If there is, I realize while striding onwards, it must have been waiting for an opportunity like this one, as I cannot recall the last time I cried. For the first time after I left Baker Street behind me, I look up and around, and I am not surprised to see that I am one of the rare pedestrians at this time and in this weather. 

I also notice where my feet have carried me, but instead of turning, I feel urged to go on. I am heading for the docks now. It is a path I have tread many a time, and mostly at an hour at which more decent chaps than me would either take a carriage or, even more likely, not dare go there at all. But I know my way around those quarters, and I also know where I am heading. After turning another corner, I finally reach my goal. I retreat into an entrance and lean against the wall, panting and wiping my face. Suddenly, my cheeks are burning, and I feel new hot tears that force their way over the freezing cold skin.

And there is something else, apart from the heat on my face: a familiar sensation, but this time not welcome at all. I close my eyes, as if I could hide from the desire that way, but of course the feeling gets even more intensive, and I have to suppress a groan. At that moment, the door opens, and a familiar face peers out to look at me. The warmth of a welcoming fireplace gushes out to tease me, I know that fireplace well, and yet, I must refrain. The equally familiar dark eyes lock with mine, and while no words are being exchanged, I understand the invitation, and for the first time, I decline. There is a short moment of irritation on both sides, but then, fortunately, an understanding smile, before the door closes again.

I can feel my jaw working, and for a moment, I am uncertain as to whether I should knock and accept the invitation nonetheless, or turn my back upon this house, never to return. Something is breaking, and I cannot tell for the life of me whether it is my heart or just the bond that I had established during all that time, all those months of secrecy and fear and suppressed love. At this, I hear myself laugh, and apart from the steady rain it is the only sound - an ugly sound, almost hysterical and at the same time utterly sad. Suddenly, my heart is singing, again I cannot tell why, and I know that I must go back home now.

Before even trying, I know that there will be no carriage that might pick me up on my way home, even if I were lucky enough to stop one: I am thoroughly drenched, and not even the cheapest coach would let me in. Hence, I stride onwards, hoping not to catch a cold this time. It would be positively ironic if I did so, after all those years without even a sneeze, and should it happen in spite of my good spirits, I would chance to believe that God intends to punish me for my sins afterwards – and maybe, if I am bold enough to hope – even in advance.

Finally, I reach Baker Street again. It must be well past midnight now, and while I let myself in, I realize that I have been utterly careless indeed to be walking around like this, as if the city’s villains were asleep during such kind of weather. I prepare for a homily sermon once my good friend sets eyes on me, and yet I must smile. Everything that distracts from my original course of action will be worthwhile. After discarding my dripping coat and hat, I climb the stairs, and trying to look as nonchalant as possible, I enter our mutual living room once more.


	2. Reminiscences

Holmes

When Watson once more graces me with his presence some three hours after his impromptu departure, I deduce from his drenched state that he forsook the comforts of a cab - which hints at a need for physical exertions stemming from mental agitation - and that his destination must be about one and a half hours away at a brisk walk, where he did not stay long, for otherwise he would not be quite so wet. It takes even a good London rain a little while to soak through Watson's mac.

That is interesting. I know my Watson very well. I know where he goes and what he is likely to do there. Neither his club nor any of his usual haunts are at that precise distance, nor would they entertain him at this hour. The more disreputable establishments, if I could bring myself to actually believe he frequented them, would certainly hold his attention longer than the mere minutes he can only have spent there.

The only conclusion left is some acquaintance that I know nothing about, one that did not receive him.

I watch him avoiding my eyes while he excuses himself and goes to bed. Curiosity gnaws at me, but I decide to let the matter rest. Watson, of course, has a right to his privacy. If there is some problem with which he thinks I might assist him, he will tell me. In the meantime, it is his prerogative to suffer in silence.

***

Watson

Highly stirred, I stumble into my room, shed my clothes in an unusually careless fashion and drop onto the bed. At once, the memories clash over me in big warm waves that stir me even more. But I meet the terms of cruel fate and remember… 

His name is Alhasan Ata’ al Rahman, but here in England he goes under the name of Hassan Raman. I first met him when I was in Afghanistan, back then. The memory of my whole stay there is somewhat blurred, probably due to the unfortunate circumstances that finally drew me from that country, much earlier than I had planned. But I do remember some details, like clearings in a haze, such as the look he gave me when we first met. In fact, now that I come to think of it, I realize that I remember the whole incident as clearly as if it had been yesterday.

It was a quiet night, and as always, the heat was ceasing amazingly quickly once the sun had gone down. I had made my round, like I used to do almost every evening, first to pay the sick bay another visit, then to stroll around the camp in order to enjoy the spectacular sight. It never ceased to amaze me how fast the shadows lengthened, and how the light went from blurring yellow to sombre red, then to soothing blue. As soon as the wind grew more crisp, in comparison with the day’s heat, they were all busy setting up little fires, in expectation of the nightly chill.

As usual, I would walk here and there, indulging in the feeling of the day’s gritty sweat drying on my skin, until I would finally find a fire that looked inviting enough for me to sit down. This time, the fire was not as large as the ones next to it, it was a little bit farther off, and the men sitting around it were all natives, hence pure curiosity made me go there. One of them had brought an intricate little instrument on which he played a simple, yet beautiful tune, while the others shared a silent sheesha. The hospitality among nomads is legendary, therefore none of the little group seemed to mind my intrusion. Quite the contrary, they moved aside for me to sit down between them, and I was even offered the obnoxious pipe, which I accepted out of politeness. The fumes smelled familiar enough: I had smelled them everywhere, I also knew about their effects, and consequently I rather tried not to inhale too much, hoping that this would be enough of good manners.

One of those men was Alhasan. He was sitting almost opposite to me, silently chewing on a siwak stick, but as he was positioned slightly further away from the fire, I could see his face, lit by the warm light of the flames. He seemed to hold a special status, as far as I could tell by the simple fact that none of the others was sitting as close to him as they otherwise used to do. His whole demeanour was that of a leader, he had the athletic build of a warrior and the suave expression of someone who was used to giving commands, and used to being obeyed without dispute.

When he caught me staring at him, he put the stick aside and slowly turned his face towards me in order to stare back. There was a fire playing in his dark eyes, rivalling the one we were sitting at, and when he finally smiled, flashing his white teeth, I felt a warmth similar to that which I had to endure during the day, yet pleasantly different. In fact, it seemed to spread from within, and although I was completely at a loss as to where it originated, I could tell that it had to do with his smile.

I had been frequently in love before, but only with women, and I had always been quite aware of my feelings, as well as of what to do with them. This was different. I soon recognized the signs, but I hardened my mind in order to ignore them. This could not be. I could not possibly fall in love with a man, no matter how important or good-looking this man was, as there were some things in life that simply were not allowed to happen. And yet, I soon realized that I had to face at least the fact that I was falling in love nonetheless.

The things we did there, alas, were comparably harmless. Apart from a little grappling, we did nothing to infringe the law, and soon afterwards, we had to part, due to my injury. I thought I would never meet him again. How surprised was I, when I received notice of my good friend Alhasan some three years later, when I was living in London again and had just put up a small practice. He had followed me, using all his little wealth to find me here, in this strange city. He had taken up a job that was beneath his status, and moved into that little house at the dockside. I was moved and intrigued, and I soon realized that I was still in love with him. This time, we were overwhelmed and quite soon cast aside all kinds of scruples, sharing moments of passion I would not dream of writing down.

I can feel another tear rolling down my cheek while I am lying there, on my bed, thinking of him. I had to hurt him, to hurt his pride, and I know he will not deign to meet me again, even though I had been the only reason for him to travel all the way to this faraway country. But I also know that I have the best reason a man can have. And now, what am I to do? I cannot possibly tell Holmes all about it. He would never understand. He might be a Bohemian, but I rather doubt that his imagination or his slackness regarding the law would allow him to approve of such an unforgivable sin as the one I have committed. No, I will have to remain silent at any cost. Thus taking a silent oath, I fall asleep.

***

Holmes

During the next day, I watch my dear friend trying to act normally, but of course, I can see in his manner that whatever happened yesterday still disturbs him.

Since it is a slow day, I first try to distract myself using my music and my chemistry, but finally, tormenting Watson proves to be more entertaining. I amuse myself by peering at him searchingly and looking away with a knowing smile whenever he catches me at it. At the same time, I resolve to invite him to dinner at Simpson's in compensation. By now, poor long-suffering Watson really looks like he could use some cheering up.

I am just about to suggest it when Watson, who happens to be looking out the window, suddenly reacts to something he sees. He blushes, then glances over to me furtively. Fortunately, I am seated in my chair and can plainly see out the window owing to some careful placing of my dressing room mirror in conjunction with the mirror above the mantel, and with a little shifting, I observe a man looking at our window as if deliberating calling here.

Clearly, Watson knows this man. I have never seen him before. Also clearly, this man has some hold over my Watson, which he, probably for reasons of morality, will not divulge to me.

I rise. "Eight of the clock! My dear Watson, I see I have almost missed an appointment. Do not wait up for me, I cannot say how long this might take." All of which is the absolute truth and a total fabrication at the same time.

He does not know that I saw the mysterious man; he suspects nothing. I am in hat and coat and out the door before he can reply.

It is a combination of quick-wittedness and good fortune that enables me to catch a cab in time to follow the man in his own hansom. When he stops in front of some nondescript house half an hour later, I watch him enter and realize that this house lies precisely one and a half hours away on foot from Baker Street.

I have found Watson's mysterious acquaintance. Curiosity overcomes my reticence. Who is he?

I direct my cab to my closest bolthole and change into the clothes and makeup of a disreputable groom. Thus disguised from attention and recognition, I wander back to my quarry's residence and start engaging the neighbours in conversation. Using the right tactics, there is nothing that the motivated investigator cannot uncover from London's professional gossips, and I am certainly highly motivated.

*****

Two days later, the subject of Watson's mysterious friend still will not leave me alone. I know all about his other friends, where and when he meets them, how he met them, everything. But this Hassan Raman is an unknown entity. According to my information, Watson has known him for years and visits with him often. Why does he never mention him?

It is none of my business, and yet I worry at it as if at a sore tooth.

“Why do you never invite your friend Mr Raman over for an hour or two?” I finally ask Watson over breakfast.

His reaction is extraordinary. He splutters. He almost drops his piece of toast. Within the space of a few seconds, he pales to near translucency, then he blushes the most intense shade of pink I have ever seen upon his countenance. Finally, he hunches over as if expecting a blow, conspicuously avoiding my eyes.

I merely lean back and wait.

As expected, he starts blurting without thinking - an ideal situation to get at the truth. All I have to do is let him talk. “It’s not what you think," he begins.

Watson

I am, of course, completely taken off-guard when Holmes makes this disastrous remark, thus revealing that he has not only been spying on me, but has also found out about my nightly ramblings. This is more than disturbing, and highly embarrassing. I realize that, if I do not tread really carefully now, everything will be lost.

Trying to cover up my nervousness, I gesticulate, and in desperate search of the appropriate words I find that I am close to stuttering. “He is just an old friend,” I utter. “From Afghanistan.” I hesitate and dare look at him for the first time since our fateful conversation started. “How on earth did you know his name?”

Holmes answers my look with the familiar cool stare of the private detective who has already found all clues needed and is merely waiting to pull out his trumps, one by one. “You mentioned him the other day.”

“I did not,” I reply, feeling my head sink slightly between my shoulders. I simply know how this is going to proceed. I can feel it in my bones.

“Then how could I know his name.”

“Holmes…Did you spy on me?”

“I would never spy on you?”

I know what he means by that. Ah, my good old friend has a way with words, and while I am convinced that he would never lie to me, there must be some truth what he is saying, even though I cannot make out what he intends to allude to. I feel the heat rise behind my eyes once more, and I know that I am already blushing, partly with shame and partly with anger, and so I get up from my chair and walk to the fireplace, just to avoid his eyes.

Holmes’ voice follows me there in his steadily merry tone of voice, and I know that he is watching my back – and probably enjoying himself greatly. “He is your old friend, yet you never mention him,” he says. “Why is that?”

“I never found it necessary,” I answer, talking into the wall. The situation seems lost, and all I can do now is try to diminish the damage that has already been done – or will be in the close future. Desperately, I turn to face him. “My dear friend, please,” I ejaculate. “It is not important at all. Why can you not… just let it be?”

“You are right, it is not important,” he replies. “And I will never bring it up again. I merely wondered… why you visit him, and he never visits you.”

All my hopes were vain, and I find my suspicions confirmed at the worst. Not only did Holmes spy on me, he also found out about my regular visits, probably by asking around in the neighbourhood, and thus revealed the ugly truth – not only to himself, but also to others, if I am truly unlucky. Now I am certain that I will never allow myself to see Alhasan any more. My intestines turn to water, the room starts spinning, and I quickly sit down. “So… you know.”

“I know where he lives. I know that you met him in Afghanistan, and I know that you have visited him several times since he moved to London, all of which is quite unremarkable, if not for the fact that you do it in secrecy. But I promised I would never mention it again. Is there anything you would like to tell me?”

I do not answer his last question, and the things he says are a mere murmur compared to the rushing noise in my ears. All is lost. I am a dead man. My world is tumbling down. I have lost my one love, and now I will also lose the other, the even more precious one. I bury my face in my hands and remain silent, wishing for the earth to swallow me and finally finish my tortures.


	3. The Truth

Holmes

A peculiar hard knot within my gut has developed during this conversation, and I wonder if I may be coming down with something. But meanwhile, poor Watson looks abjectly miserable. 

“My dear fellow, it cannot possibly be this bad," I offer, worried and disturbed at the fact that I am obviously missing something. My dear friend is acting as if he had committed a crime, but surely he cannot consider it criminal to befriend an Afghani. Not Watson.

He seems inconsolable. “But it is, my dear, dear friend," he cries. "It is worse than that.”

I must admit that I am growing ever more confused. “What is the worst thing that can happen?”

He looks at me, desolate. “To lose you.”

Lose me? Because of his friendship with that man? “As a friend?” I seek to clarify.

He nods, looking away again.

Ridiculous. “You could only do that by doing things that are completely against your character. Betrayal, deceit, or by moving out.” None of which I can, presently, imagine, and certainly not for a friend. Now, if ever a woman were to capture my Watson's attentions... But that is something upon which I prefer not to dwell.

For a moment, he says nothing. “Two out of three…” he finally whispers, looking as if about to faint.

I am completely at a loss. “What have you done?”

He sits up straight and looks me in the eye with all the staunchness I have come to expect from him. “I have betrayed you, and yet, I have not. I have deceived you, and yet, I should not call it that. Rest assured that I did intend to do no wrong, and yet, it was the only possible thing I could do.” He shakes his head. “But tell you, I cannot.”

“I see," I say slowly. "You do not trust me. You think I might be moved to extreme reaction. If you have done nothing to harm me, then there is nothing you have to fear from me. You are much too decent a fellow.”

“Decent!” He barks out a laugh. “Oh, but I do trust you. If I do not tell you the truth, it is to prevent you from being harmed.”

Truly, sometimes Watson can be too chivalrous to be real, and too prepared to carry all the burdens of the world upon his shoulders. Once again, I obviously have to be plainer than this. “What is this harm that you fear would come to me? What do you think you could do to harm me?” Illustrious criminals have failed to do so. It seems laughable that Watson should consider himself capable of achieving anything of the kind.

He turns away with his familiar sulky expression, the one he uses when he does not want to let his feelings show. “I can still break the law, even if I am not that... worthy.”

That does not make it any plainer for me. I know that he can break the law. But surely his doing so would bring no harm to me?

*

Watson

Without turning back, I can feel my good friend looking at me, probably with honest concern, and yet I cannot force myself to revolve, or perhaps even to talk to him. The poor fellow is truly without a clue for once in his life, and I curse under my breath for letting myself be carried away to give away those subtle hints that did not improve matters, but rather contributed to an even more complicated situation. And that, only because this one sin I committed is outside Holmes’ power of imagination.

I am completely at a loss. Nothing is further from my thoughts than harming Holmes in any way, be it by words or actions. On the other hand, I cannot explain, alas! I cannot even dare hint at what exactly is going on, for I know in my heart that this would put a nasty end to our friendship, and heaven forbid I was the cause of that. All my endeavours, all the secrecy and the subdued emotions, would have been in vain, should I fail him now.

Realizing that this cannot possibly go on, and that my limited faculties of deceit will not make the grade eventually, in the face of the master of deception, I must seek flight once more, and escape to the one friend who could help me. His appearance earlier this week had already shown me that he cares, and that I wronged him utterly by leaving him the way I did, and thus I might be able to make up for this and at the same time gain some knowledge as to how to behave in a situation as muddled as this one. 

It is ridiculous, indeed, that I seek advice and shelter with the one man who’s existence called our little discussion into life, but what else can I do? Biting my upper lip in order to suppress the bitter laughter that wants to creep up, quite inconveniently, I finally turn to look at Holmes. “My dear friend,” I say. “I beg you to be patient. There is no feasible explanation for my outrageous behaviour, and yet, I must ask you to trust me and not to press me with further questions. Right now, I first and foremost must straighten things out with myself, and only then will I be able to give you further explanations.” 

Even though there is a grain of truth in this, I cannot avoid the feeling that it is a foul excuse indeed, yet it must suffice for the time being. And without awaiting a word of consent or protest, I grab my hat and coat and take my leave. The fresh air will do me good, and I dearly hope that I will come up with a proper excuse on my way to Hassan.

 

*

 

Raman

This report I am giving on behalf of my loyal friend John Watson, who also has the kindness to write it down for me, as I never acquired the art of writing. 

My name is Alhasan Ata’ al Rahman, eldest son of Rahman Akba al Rakin ibn Jibran. My family clan was and still is that of a tribe of Nomads from the Western downs, who had travelled the deserts of Iraq and Persia on their long way from Arabia to Afghanistan, and who happened to stay there, near Candahar , while the Englishmen were having that fateful battle against the lords of the country. There, I learned to know my modest and kind friend John, whom I will spare the embarrassment of forcing him to write down in his own hand the praise I would well like to heap upon his person.

The war separated us, and I did not believe that I would ever see him again. Then, by the will of God, I received notice of his whereabouts, but before I could find him, we were separated once again, and I arrived several days late, only to learn to my great dismay that John had been injured, and that they had transported him to India. There, I could not follow him, due to various reasons that are of no importance here.

It was then that I decided to sell my Falcon in order to obtain enough money to travel to England, for I believed that he had been brought back to the land of his fathers. Had I known that I would arrive there even before him, I would not have hastened as much as I did to get there, and be with him once more. Be it as it were, I arrived in London about one year later, and I did not find John, but I found the humble residence on the grounds of the docklands, where I have resided ever since.

I found work in the docks, and the ships, arriving from everywhere in the worlds, provided me with all I needed. I was astounded to realize that there were many kinsmen working in the docks, just like me, and I soon became their leader, as I was the best to learn and use the foreign language of the Englishmen. I owe this to John, too, because he started teaching me his language when we were still in Afghanistan.

It took me another couple of months until I finally found out about the housing of my beloved friend. But then, he had arrived at London only shortly beforehand, and was still suffering from the consequences of his illness. It was a heartfelt reconvention, and we soon behaved as if we had never been apart. I cared for his health whenever we could afford to meet, and I can proudly state that I contributed much to his fast recovery. We could not, of course, meet in public, or even dare dream of living together, because we come from two different worlds that will never merge. But the time we had together, we spent as closely and intensely as possible.

One day, John told me about Sherlock Holmes, a name I had heard before. He would not have needed to use so many words to describe this man, anyway, because the shine in his eyes told me everything I needed to know, but I always liked to listen to him, and so I listened. Now, my friend, you shall not cry, but rejoice in the faith and love I bestow upon you.

The only question I asked about the stranger, of whom I had already heard the strangest stories, and who had filled my friend with so much pleasure, was if Sherlock Holmes was a trustworthy man. When John hastened to answer in the affirmative, I agreed that he should move in with the man. I knew what would happen eventually, after the two had spent some time together, even though I took into consideration the noble attitude and gentle consistency of my dear friend, but my destiny had been decided long before that, and so I made a solemn oath to myself that I would do everything in my power to contribute to John’s well-being, inn shâ’a allâh.

Not much later, John moved with Sherlock Holmes to Baker Street, but nothing happened. We did not meet that often any more, because he was at Holmes’ disposal most of the time, but whenever he could afford it, he would sneak away, thus establishing what we called the ‘proficiency lie’. It was a dangerous game, but we could not endure going on without each other. And thus, I came to realize that I was mistaken, because nothing happened at all, for a very long time.

When John finally made up his mind, leaving me to stay alone in that fateful night, I was almost relieved, because I found that he took heart. My curiosity, however, made me go to his house, to make sure that he had actually found his happiness. I knew that he might mistake my appearance before his house as a desperate attempt to seek his company, and that it would lure him back to me eventually. But this was my intention: to force him to come to my place another time, driven by his conscience, so that we could talk about the whole matter, hark back to all the things we had never talked about before. When he finally came, I would be ready to tell him that he had my blessings. And I would advise him what to do next.


	4. Unravelling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes gains some clarity, whereas Watson remains clueless

Holmes

Several days pass. I wait patiently for something to develop, and finally, upon the evening of the third day after our conversation, Watson grabs his hat and coat, announcing his intention to go out. He does not specify where he is going, but I know. Watson is a creature of habit, and this is not the time for his regular outings to his club, or to the pub to meet old acquaintances. This only leaves one conclusion.

After he has gone, I spend a moment in a silent battle with myself, my curiosity, my respect for Watson’s privacy, and my need to have clarity. Of course, the outcome was decided almost beforehand, and so I, too, don my outer garments and leave, whistling for a cab.

When I arrive at Mr. Raman’s residence, Watson has already gone into the house, as evidenced by the fresh wheel marks upon the curb and the familiar print of Watson’s boots upon the doorsteps.

I hesitate. It has always been my policy to seek the facts, and in this instance, there would surely be no better way of achieving this than by getting the three of us into one room and talk. However, I should be a fool to deny my intuition, which is shouting at me that, before I embark upon such a course, I should first have a clear understanding of the situation. I know Watson’s side of things. What I do not know is Mr. Raman’s side.

I spend long hours in motionless vigil huddled in a convenient entrance, awaiting enlightenment or at least some sort of development that will answer my questions. Finally, Watson leaves. Deep in thought, my friend begins to walk away, back to Baker Street if I am not mistaken. Should I follow him to make sure that he does not meet with any mischief in his distracted state, or should I use this opportunity to talk to Mr. Raman?

I am still weighing possibilities when, to my surprise, the door opens once more, and the object of much of my thoughts exits.

He certainly is an imposing specimen. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a powerful frame and erect posture, he briefly scans the street with his dark eyes and moves to follow Watson.

Needless to say that I am not far behind. For a while, we thus move through London’s streets; Watson, oblivious, in front, followed by his mysterious acquaintance, and myself in both their wake. Mr. Raman makes no effort to catch up with Watson, but neither does he take particular care not to be noticed. He is, to all intents and purposes, merely following.

This is pointless. The three of us may happily march in single file all night without me getting any closer to a resolution to this mystery. I quicken my pace, walk up to Watson’s friend, and tap his shoulder.

He halts, but does not turn around.

I step back, half expecting to be attacked. After all, this is not the Strand, and a fellow tapping another’s shoulder in these environs are usually interested in something other than the time of day.

“Good evening, Mr. Holmes.”

He says this calmly, and still without turning. I admit that I am quite taken aback. Should this not be my line? Normally, I am the one who knows. Furthermore, I am not used to being noticed when I follow someone, let alone being identified by a perfect stranger. However, this begs the question how this Mr. Raman should be able to do so. Clearly, he knows a good deal about me. “Why are you following this man?” I demand, refusing to be caught flat-footed.

He turns and looks at me with serenity. “I am following this man in order to make sure that he arrives home safely. But as you are so efficient in following others, you might as well take my place.” He pauses, and adds with a strange smile, “If you are up to it.”

There is a wealth of innuendo in his tone, but I ignore it. I am not about to become side-tracked. “What is your business with him?”

“My business with him is something we can talk over a cup of tea. But not here.”

I have no objection to a cup of tea if it will get me to the bottom of this. “Now,” I agree by way of accepting his invitation.

“No.” His voice, in spite of his refusal, is calm and soft. “And I hope he has got home safely by now.”

“Your concern is touching. However, he can look after himself. It is you I am concerned about.”

“I know.” He smiles. “It may or may not reassure you that he came to me because of you.”

“Indeed.” I am more confused than ever, and I resolve to remedy this soonest. “Maybe we should discuss this right now after all. It appears that there are some facts about this business that I am missing.”

”There certainly are. But I will say no more unless you accompany me back to my home.”

I nod. “That is all I should ask for. Lead on.”

He inclines his head and takes the lead.

I follow him into his small flat. There is hardly any furniture, not more than I expect would be in a bedouin tent. I look around, noting the immaculate cleanliness of the place and the fact that he has but a single servant, who looks as old as the hills. Raman declines his servant’s offer to help with an imperious gesture, prompting the venerable one to sigh and withdraw wordlessly.

“Pray start at the beginning,” I ask him as soon as we are alone.

“Allow me to serve you some tea first,” he returns implacably. “This might take a while.”

I refrain from grinding my teeth. It is obvious that Raman will come to the point in his own good time. “Very well, then.”

Raman busies himself sedately, clearly unwilling to hurry on my account, and finally serves the tea with high ceremony while I tap my fingers impatiently. I cannot fault the fellow; even though I have never been so far to the East, I do know that the serving of tea is an indispensable part of Eastern hospitality, and either refusing the offer or asking him to hurry would be an unpardonable insult.

Finally Raman sits down and pours. To satisfy protocol, I take a sip of the heavily sweetened brew and gesture for him to begin.

“Before I tell you anything, Mr. Holmes, you must answer me a question. Why is it that you are so ardently interested in what becomes of John Watson?”

“Obviously you don't read the newspaper. He is my biographer, my friend, and my partner. His welfare is of the utmost concern to me.”

“I am pleased to hear that. I can assure you that I feel quite the same.”

I rather doubt that. If nothing else, Watson can only be one man’s biographer. But I have already established that I am missing something in this whole business. Time to remedy that. “The whole story, please.”

“You are a very persistent man, Mr. Holmes.”

I incline my head. “It has been of service to me occasionally.”

“And yet I do not know why you should command me. If you want to hear the whole story, you should ask your friend and not me. The only thing I can tell you is my opinion.”

That much is evident. Most people’s facts are a neutral observer’s opinions. “I should be pleased to hear that,” I tell him, refraining from giving voice to my rising impatience.

Raman sips his tea and puts down his cup before folding his hands and looking at me searchingly. “Never before have I faced you, Mr. Holmes, but now that I see you, I can understand the things John has told me about you.”

I gesture impatiently. It is Raman and his relationship with Watson in which I am interested, not Raman’s opinion of me. “It is not my wish to command you. However I must ask you to tell me your business with him.”

“I am his friend.”

“Is that all?” It cannot be. Watson has many friends. Raman is the only one he visits clandestinely.

Raman laughs softly and takes another sip of tea. “Hmm. What is he to you?”

I raise my eyebrows. “I told you.”

“Pari pari, Mr. Holmes. What do you think of our mutual friend John Watson? What are you to him?”

He is fishing. I have employed the same tactics when I was merely guessing and needed the suspect to confirm my guesses. No, my dear Raman, I shall not make it so simple for you. “If he has told you things about me then you should know that.”

“I want to hear it from you.”

“Then we are at an impasse, for it is not my habit to divulge information of this kind to perfect strangers.”

“I understand.” He inclines his head and pours more tea. I expect him to declare that this meeting is over, but he surprises me. “When I came to know John Watson back in Afghanistan, he was my world. And when he returned to England, I sold my falcon to follow him. Now you.”

He is sincere, and therefore, this statement must have cost him something. Very well, pari pari. “There are three persons on this earth for whom I would willingly commit murder. Watson is one of them.”

“I believe this is true,” he says after a pause. “And I am very glad for him. However, there are some things you have never done for him. And done they must be. And even though you have the keen eye of a falcon, and the spirit of a true hunter, sometimes you are blind, Mr. Holmes.”

Now I do grind my teeth. “Then, pray, divulge to me your wisdom.”

“I will do nothing of the kind, Mr. Holmes, because the wise man does not spill his wisdom but instead gives the other a chance to learn by himself. But I will give you my advice, if you want to accept it.”

“I am listening.”

“Do you remember the first time you set eyes on John?”

“I do.” I refrain from mentioning that I have perfect recall.

“Good. Recall the moment. Not here, not now. Do this when you are on your own and listen into yourself. Also, what is the first time you meet in the morning?”

“That varies. Why?”

“Choose a quiet moment and look at him, and listen into yourself.”

I wish I knew where he was leading me. “I can recall hundreds of such moments with perfect clarity. What is it I am supposed to notice?”

“Feelings, Mr. Holmes.”

“Feelings.” This would explain why I cannot follow him. How am I supposed to draw any conclusions from something as unquantifiable as that?

“What is it you like most about him? Answer quickly.”

“There is not any one thing. Watson is an accumulation of admirable traits that he, in his humility, chooses to underplay frequently, which is, in itself, an admirable trait.”

“I agree. Is that all, Mr. Holmes?”

“By no means.” I could fill a small pamphlet describing the things I admire about my friend, were I so inclined.

“Do you like his smell?”

Once again, I am amazed by the turn the conversation has taken. “What a strange question! It is hardly his most significant characteristic.”

“Why not?”

“A man's smell does not define him,” I explain irritably. It should be obvious! “It only defines his cleanliness and choice of toilet water.”

“But it does, Mr. Holmes. You have no idea. I come from a tribe of nomads. We rarely wash. And yet, we do not all smell alike. The smell of a man can decide everything, friend or foe. Antagonist or lover.”

“I will admit that it may make an enemy easier to track,” I reply, sarcastically. “But my sympathies are not decided by my nose.” The mere thought is absurd. How could one possibly arrive at a reasonable decision in that way?

Raman's expression remains calm. “Then you are a fool, or merely ignorant of it.”

“On the contrary. Whatever decision my nose may make is duly noted but overridden by my mind.”

“So, if you leave your precious mind aside, what remains?”

“Instinct,” I reply unwillingly. “However, instinct can be fooled.”

“Now I repeat my question: Do you like John's smell? You do not need to answer. I should advise you, though, that you give it a try.”

I think I am beginning to understand. He wants to know if my decision to call Watson my friend is a purely intellectual decision. He wants to know if I liked his smell when we first met, and he wants to tell me that I based my decision to share diggings with him solely upon that. “And what if the answer is no?” I enquire casually.

“Then I am the fool, and very happy.”

So, Mr. Raman likes my Watson's smell. I feel my jaw set. “And if it is yes?”

“Then you will see.”

And now we are back to being deliberately vague. I sigh in annoyance. “You are more stubborn than the Irish forger I was once obliged to force to a confession. What is it I shall see?”

“I cannot tell you in advance, for this is something you have to experience all for yourself.”

“Speculate, then.”

He laughs. “No. I am sorry. But I will give you further advice. Have another tea.”

I possess my soul in what patience I have left and meekly drink my tea. Besides, the man is beginning to intrigue me. It is an arrogant fool who dismisses advice outright simply because he does not understand the reasoning behind it.

Finally, Raman is ready to come to the point. “When you are sitting together by the fireplace, I should advise you to watch him. First watch his hands. Then his throat. And then his eyes. Can you follow me, Mr. Holmes?”

“Fortunately, we are not having this conversation in Arabic,” I say sarcastically. “I might have some difficulty then.”

He laughs again. “Would you prefer that?”

“Indeed, no.”

“Very well. You will then listen to yourself and perceive and remember everything that comes up. Without exception, Mr. Holmes. This is vital.” He takes another sip of tea.

I mull over his strange way of putting it and the emphasis. “Everything, including dinner?” I finally enquire.

He is not amused. “If you like.”

“I confess I do not see the value of this exercise.” After all, watching Watson is one of my favourite pastimes, and never has anything 'come up' while I did so. Hmmm. There's a connotation. I wonder if that is what Raman is driving at?

“This I believe. Are you ready for one last, as you call it, exercise?”

Guardedly, I reply, “Since we are only speaking in the hypothetical, at least so far, I don't suppose it can do any harm.”

“The next time you hand something to John, make sure that your fingers touch.”

And if I ever needed something spelled out to me, he has now done so. I look at him, fighting to keep my expression blank. “It is a very, shall we say, disturbing direction in which you are taking me.”

“Is it now, dear Sir? Pray tell me, what else did you expect?”

“I expected nothing except to learn the truth. But you have given me much to think about. Thank you for the tea and for your advice.”

He nods solemnly. “You are very welcome, Mr. Holmes, friend of John Watson, friend and partner. I wish you a safe journey home.”

*

Watson

I get up early the following morning, even though I was back home quite late last night, as I had, in spite of my fabulous intentions, spent the better part of the evening with my Arabian friend. The birds are twittering happily in the light blue sky, the morning air is crisp and fresh and invites me to an early walk, which I intend to do on my own, as I suspect that my dear housemate might not rise and shine before noon. He was away when I arrived at night, and I suspected him on someone’s trail (to my disgruntlement on his own), which must have led him astray for the better part of the night.

Still dressed in my dressing gown, and lazily stretching my limbs while yawning heartily, I enter the living room in order to take a cup of tea before my usual morning routine. Just upon stepping around the chaise, reaching for my early morning cuppa, I freeze in mid-yawn. There is my good friend, sitting in his favourite chair, his legs crossed, and he is not only wide awake, but watching me with most intense scrutiny. By the look of it, he did not change for the night, but remained sitting there for God alone knows how long, and the ashes of at least six pipes are scattered around him on various yesterday’s newspapers. I close my mouth and cock my head questioningly, but all he does in response to this is close his eyes, as if trying to solve an urgent problem.

Slightly irritated by this behaviour, which is quite unusual even for a chap as bohemian as Holmes, at least at such early an hour, I mumble a gruff hello and reach for the cup, pour some tea (thanking the inventor of tea-cosies), then close my eyes in order to welcome the first waves of warmth that fill my sleepy stomach. When I finally look up again, my eyes meet his through the haze, and I realize that he is scrutinizing me once more. As there is no use in reprimanding Holmes for his strange behaviour, I clear my throat noisily and force a smile. “Tea, Holmes?” I inquire, reaching for the other cup.

“Yes,” he replies. “Tea, of course.” At this, he smiles as if rejoicing in some kind of private joke, and reaching out he stretches his slender fingers in the direction of the table. I shake my head, chuckling softly about the ease with which Holmes uses to delegate simple tasks like getting up and filling his own cup to the one trustful friend who would always hasten to do them for him: me. He waits patiently, watching me so intently that I can literally feel his eyes in the back of my neck. When I hand him the cup, his hand accidentally touches mine, and as if on cue, he closes his eyes again, whereas I can but shake my head at these alien ways of his, and finally resume my morning routine.

After a little refreshment, I choose a lengthy path that leads me away from the docks and in the direction of Hyde Park, where I stride along the paths for more than one hour, before finally returning to our lodgings. I decide to make a little detour via the tobacco shop in order to prevent Holmes from buying the worst shag just for the sake of saving a penny or two, then take the morning paper up on my way in, and whistling a little tune that had crossed my mind while walking, I once again enter our living room. 

The fast walking has indeed cleared my mind, and heightened my spirits considerably, as well as my body tonus, to such a degree that I have to dab away a couple of beads from my forehead after taking off my hat. I find Holmes seated in his chair, just like I had left him one-and-a-half hours ago, but now his hands are folded and his eyes are closed in deep meditation. Just when I sit down to read the newspaper, also with the intention to hide behind the piles of paper as to not disturb and not be bothered, either, Holmes’ voice rings out so suddenly that I give a start.

“The Hellespont,” he declares. “Do you remember where on earth Shakespeare used this place?”

Slightly annoyed, I tear myself away from a most interesting article on new methods of hospital disinfections, put down the newspaper and glare at my good friend. “I do not.”

“Then do me the favour and hand me ‘As You Like It’,” he says, lifting his right arm and pointing behind him. 

I could, of course, retort that I am seated quite happily in my chair and that the collected Shakespeare is much easier within his reach than within mine. In contrast to this plain fact, I merely give a grunt, put aside the newspaper and get up from my cosy seat in order to almost bend over Holmes and reach across until I eventually drop the desired volume into his lap. While doing so, however, I take no pains in hiding my ennui, and I even enjoy shoving him slightly aside, just to prove that he could have done this himself easily, and will have to face a peeved friend now. In spite of taking the hint, though, he merely chuckles, and after browsing the pages for only a couple of minutes, he throws the book behind his shoulder with a satisfied sigh.

Once more, I look up from my reading, this time in order to reprimand Holmes with a disapproving glance as a comment on his disrespect for the literal world in general, let alone the noble profession of bookbinders, and the opus of Shakespeare in particular. To my surprise (and no little satisfaction), I see him blush: a rare sight indeed, and all I need to feel a wave of triumph, which is unsurprisingly closely followed by a pang of guilt, because I do not actually rejoice in ruffling my good friend’s composure. 

Recalling the past night, I feel that a tinge of heat reaches my countenance, too, and I quickly avert my eyes lest he can read too much in them. This is the last thing I wish to happen: that he, Holmes, can detect what I deny myself, and turns away from me. But if truth be told, I cannot stand this suspense for much longer. At least, I have to ask him why he is watching me so intently. Thus, I take my courage and look over the newspaper to talk to him. “Holmes,” I inquire, aiming to sound as casually as possible. “What exactly are you up to?” 

My good friend answers my glance with a mischievous smile. “I am going to smoke another pipe,” he says. “Why?”

I hear a sigh escape my lips. It is an annoying treat of his to answer my questions by asking back. But this time I have to know, and my temper is not improving either. “What is this?” I thus enquire. “A kind of charade?”

In contrast to my expectations, Holmes remains completely calm and at the same time utterly earnest. “No. Not a charade, Watson. A gathering of information. My conclusions are almost complete.”

“About Shakespeare.”

“Not particularly, no.”

Now I feel distinctly annoyed. Whatever it may be, it seems that once more my friend is in the know, whereas I am still utterly clueless. With an impatient gesture, I shove aside the newspaper, as the desire to read it has long left me, anyway. “What is it then,” I say. “Speak up, man, or I may lose my patience.” I immediately feel the heat rush back into my cheeks, and to my utter dismay I grow aware that I behave in a quite uncivilized manner already, even though I had not intended to raise my voice. But to be frank: I do feel utterly discomposed.

Holmes’ reaction is prompt, and probably an adequate retribution for my hot-temperedness. He raises an amused eyebrow. “Watson, Watson. You really are a bear before dinner.” If ever, his voice is literally dripping with innuendo now.

“What?” is all I can utter. I cannot be more puzzled. “What?” I repeat, lacking not only the words, but also the appropriate thoughts behind them.

Holmes slightly bends towards me, which I know as the signal to finally enlighten me: the grand finale. “It all hinges upon one thing,” he accordingly says. “I know where you were yesterday. I know whom you saw. I know why. And I know that this thing has intimately to do with the two of us.”

Feeling that my world is a-tumble, I wish the earth would swallow me whole. He knows. He knows! “You don’t… you can’t…” I stutter, completely out of my depth.

“Oh my dear fellow, you look positively ghastly,” rings out Holmes’ entirely inadequately amused voice. “Do breathe deeply. In fact: I do and I can.”

All that is left to me is to remain sitting there, staring at him, my mouth opening and closing on its own account, so that I, even though I highly remind myself of a carp outside the pond, can only go on stuttering, while the blade will fall any moment now. “I was… I am…” I slump. “You know.”

“Almost everything,” Holmes repeats. “As I said. You have seen your friend Mr. Raman, and after you left I talked to him. He has told me everything.”

“You were? He has? My dear mother of God.” With a shaking hand, I take out my handkerchief in order to mop my brow once more.

“There only remains one thing upon which I am not yet quite clear,” Holmes continues.

I try to compose myself, yet I do not dare utter another word, lest it be as incoherent as the past ones.

Holmes leans back again, takes a deep breath and then says, “Given the choice: whom would you prefer? Your friend Raman – or me?”

Had I just recovered somewhat from the first shock, I feel now that the room is starting to spin. I cannot even tell whether I feel hot or cold, and maybe it is in fact both: the coldness filling my intestines, whereas an unpleasant heat is rising behind my eyes. “Prefer?” I say weakly. “My dear Holmes… He means very much to me…”

“I see.”

The way he says these two words hauls me back upon firm ground. Maybe he is not bluffing after all, and at least he too seems to be tentative about certain details. But he also seems to be rather excited. “He cannot have told you everything,” I thus say.

“He told me he sold his falcon to follow you,” says Holmes. “That is all I need to know. And I can completely sympathize with his motivation.”

I find I am rapidly and astoundingly composed now. “You do not earnestly expect me to decide between the two of you,” I state.

“Not at the moment,” he replies. “But the question may arise eventually.”

The question may arise eventually. I mull the words over in my mind, while my thoughts remain in a turmoil. Holmes and Hassan as rivals is a concept I would never have conceived, nor would the circumstance be apposite. It is certainly true that they both share some minor traits, but the general aspect of each is so unlike that of the other that it takes me several minutes until I am able to form the suitable words. It especially takes me by surprise that Holmes would even consider such a thing as rivalry. Finally I say, “It is not a matter of time, actually. It is rather a matter of preferences…” With this, I intend to hint at the special circumstances under which I met each of them. I do not know how else to put it, even though I doubt that my good friend will grasp the meaning of those words.

“Then the decision is already made for you,” Holmes retorts.

“You think I could decide?” I try again. “I did nothing of the sort. But I know what I… wish.”

“And what is that?”

Well then. If he forces me to make up my mind, I know which direction to choose. In fact, now that he holds the knife at my throat, I know that my mind was made up in times of yore. However, I do not know how on earth I can tell him how I feel. I do not have an answer apart from looking at him with what I regard as my most favourable smile and say, “Oh Holmes.”

Holmes is not the man who can be fooled by smiles. “What does that mean?” He says sternly. “Pray be precise, Watson. I cannot deal with this.”

I should have known that there is no chance of smiling my way out of this. Consequently, I force myself to be as blunt as I dare. “Yes, you were right: I was with Hassan last night - again. But the reason for that was quite different from what you suspected.” I can feel the tears forming in my eyes now. “He… gave me his advice, as a friend, one of the closest I have – and his blessings.”

“Indeed.” 

I chance to look at my dear friend, and to my concern he seems to be utterly touched, and in turn presently is the one who lacks the appropriate words. I use the moment of silence in order to blow my nose.

“Well, that’s all right then,” Holmes finally says. “This answers my question. Thank you, Watson.”

In contrast to my utter ignorance of the days and hours past, I know that both of us are far from clueless any more. Any ensuing kind of pretence would be as foolish as any more loss of precious time – time we could have used together, while none of us had a clue. I merely look at my friend for another moment, but then I finally take the liberty of making the concluding decision. “Well now,” I say. “There is a question I would like to ask you. However, this I should rather do when we are completely unmolested.” Instead of going on, I get up and lock the door, then turn around to face my expectant friend, Holmes, friend and partner. 

*****


	5. Tales from the East - A Hassan Sequel

Watson

 

“What’s that?” I inquired when I saw a plateful of strange round brownish things lying on the pewter table between us. They looked remarkably like camel dung, and I wondered whether I was supposed to eat them or throw them into the fire. As an answer, Hassan took one of the offensive objects and thrust it into my mouth, despite my fervent protest, while he made encouraging movements with the other hand, and grinned like a boy. I bit down into the sticky thing, and my teeth met a subtle substance, mellow and unbelievably sweet. “Kul, kul!” said my newly won friend. I knew that word, it meant that I should go on eating. “But what is it?” I asked again, chewing quite happily meanwhile. “Teyne,” he said. “Tamrun. Dates.”

We were lying on a pile of coarse pillows in one corner of the tent, quite close to each other, resting on old camel saddles covered with colourful rugs. The other half of the tent was occupied by an impressive falcon sitting on a pedestal. It was a ‘she’, as I had learned already, and not only a precious gem, but also a jolly good hunter, which provided both high esteem and a significant amount of money, won at informal hunting competitions. The tent itself was comparably small, yet provided shelter from sun, wind and presently from sight, too. And while it was half open during the better part of the day, its string locks were now tightly closed. In contrast to my previous impressions, the interior was strikingly unimpressive, and its sparse furniture practical, and even more important, transportable. The predominant colours were dark brown and off-white, and a little bit of red, and the entire cloth was made of goat’s hair, which I had been told by my gentle host.

He soon reached for another date and made a move to go on feeding me, but I caught his hand in mine and snatched the date from his fingers, just because there are some things that an English Gentleman should regard as inappropriate, even during times of war. When our hands touched, Hassan looked at me in mild astonishment, then he smiled and gave me what I could only interpret as an utterly shameless complete survey. For a moment, time seemed to stand still. I recall that I must have started to tremble, while my glance swept from our hands to Hassan’s face and back. Then, he held onto my wrist with the other hand and bent forward, and to my shock he took the date out of my fingers with his mouth, taking his time, his lips brushing my fingertips lasciviously.

I did not know what to think. My heart was racing, but even though I was completely aware of the danger I put myself in, in fact, the danger we both were facing in case we were overheard, I was hesitant to do what I should have done: to leave his tent immediately and return to my duties, to swear never to see him again, and to take a cold bath. Instead, I remained where I was, staring at him like the proverbial rabbit, while he was still holding my hand – and licking my fingers. And only then did I feel that I was aroused, utterly and mercilessly aroused, and I could not help but express this pitiable state of mine by repetitious and barely suppressed moans. 

The world seemed to be spinning around us, and in spite of my horror, I felt strangely relieved and free, as if I was flying. The whole situation was not real, it was some kind of surrealistic dream we shared, and the rushing sound in my ears was efficiently drowning the voice of reason to which I might otherwise have listened. All that counted right now was Hassan’s face, his alien dark eyes, sparkling with equally strange lust, and his smiling lips, still moist from the date and from the unusual contact they had just made with my fingers. He licked them with his tongue, and I knew that he could still taste the saltiness of my own hand, and by the way he looked at me, this was a most rewarding experience.

Then he pulled my arm towards him, guiding my hand to his chest. I followed the movement like a somnambulist, leaning over the plate until I touched the dark and warm skin with my fingers. All second thoughts hauled aside, I started inspecting the unknown territory, and it was as if I had never touched a man before. Of course, I had palpated many a man’s chest, due to my profession, but never in that fashion, and never before had I spent even a thought on how enticing this could be; until now, when I suddenly felt a physical reaction to my hesitant exploration, not only within the ribcage beneath my fingers, but also within my own. It was like an electric circuit that had suddenly been closed, making our hearts leap in unison. 

It is difficult to recall what exactly happened after that fateful moment. I remember that the pewter plate rolled off, spilling most of the dates on the carpet, and maybe it was shoved out of the way. I remember our mouths meeting, almost forcefully, as we drank from each other the saps of life, with all their natural and date-induced sweetness, as if we were dying of thirst, casting all worries aside, all pretence, all reservations. While my hand was still groping the smooth skin of my friend’s torso, feeling the strong muscles underneath, he rolled off his pillows and on top of me, and I instantly felt that his arousal matched mine. That, however, was also what brought me back to my senses, at least to some degree.

“Please,” I whispered, my mouth still close to his, while I reluctantly tried to push him off me. “We cannot go any further. Please.”

Hassan immediately supported himself in order to get his weight off me, and he exhaled in what I first mistook as disapproval. But then I saw the look in his eyes, and I knew that he understood. He leaned his forehead against mine for a couple of minutes, while our breaths slowly settled back to normal. Then, and only then, did he kiss me again, on the mouth, but without any attempt to penetrate my lips, and pulling me with him, he rolled onto his back. I fell asleep with my head resting on his shoulder, and during that night, all my sorrows respectfully stayed at a safe distance.

*

“Dates,” Holmes said. “These are called dates, and Mycroft mentioned that they are very nutritious.” I caught myself staring at the plate full of the sticky little brown marbles, and only slowly heard my friend’s voice drift to my ears. And still, I was wrapped in a thick layer of sweet memories that made pulling away so very difficult, so that I resolved to sluggishly turn my head towards Holmes without uttering an answer. He gave a dry chuckle and stuffed his pipe until the room once more filled with thick bluish wafts of smoke, while I remained silent. “What on earth do you hope to find in these?” my good friend added. “Enlightenment?” He chuckled again and slapped me on the back, rather softly, I must say, as if he feared to caress me and yet wanted to make a point.

We had spent the better part of the past night in unison, and yet we had not done what we originally intended to do. In spite of my yearning, I had found myself caught in a maelstrom of memories, followed by an unusual apprehensiveness, and apart from kissing Holmes, I had behaved like an utter fool. Now it was already around noon, and Holmes had been kind enough not to talk about the circumstances, even though I was convinced that he must be disappointed. I found myself in a state of deep regret, verging on despair, because of what had not happened, but it could not be helped: I had failed him.

Forcing myself to look at my dear friend, I saw that his eyes were still resting on me, and his investigating, yet kind gaze induced more remorse in my soul than words could have done. I would have liked to explain the matter to him, however I found myself unable to do so, as I could not find an explanation myself for my sudden and utterly unexpected hesitancy. And thus, I shrouded myself in silence, searching for an explanation and finding naught. It was Holmes who finally spoke.

“My dear Watson,” he exclaimed, his voice not entirely without amusement. “You are a sorry sight indeed, yet the matter is remarkably simple.” Instead of waiting for an answer, he got up from his chair and stuffed his pipe anew, then strode to my chair, and propping his foot on the frame, he made a few drags, his fine lips working around the mouthpiece, while he obviously did not expect me to contradict him. I tried to answer his steady gaze unblinkingly, but I did not succeed in this completely, and thus, looking up at my friend in expectation of his faultless inspection, I patiently awaited his sermon.

“We have come to a point where both of us realize that there has to be made a slight change of our relation,” he said. “Even you cannot deny that this is the outcome of our mutual observation, as well as last night’s… exchange.” The corners of his mouth twitched, yet he made no attempt to smile. “After what I suspect that you have gone through, it does not take me by surprise to see you this hesitant. In fact, it is just what I expected.” He drew his foot away and strode to the window, and I knew that it was now my turn to speak. However, I waited for another moment or two before I found the courage to do so.

“I do not know what to say, Holmes,” I said, my mind racing with images of the past night as well as many a past day from the precedent years. “It is not that I do not want you. It is just that I suddenly felt I cannot…”

“… touch me?” he finished my sentence. “But why on earth should you not do so, after it was I who invited you. Why should it be so difficult to do so, in fact, after we shared this extraordinary kiss?”

I could not answer him, as I myself did not know an answer to this. If truth be told, there was nothing on earth I wanted more than touching Holmes, and I had done so in my dreams for years, and yet, here I was, hesitant as a choir boy, churning from within, and yet refraining from even holding his hand. What was it that made him so… different? I had never felt any of this facing Hassan. In fact, it had all been so very easy when I met him, and now that I had finally found a way to approach the one I loved most in the very same manner, I shied away. This was utterly strange, and I hated myself for behaving like this, but the more I thought about it, the more did I feel my mind swirl, and my hands shake, and I could not even make myself stand up and go to him. “I don’t know, Holmes,” I ejaculated. “Believe me, my dear friend, that I do love you. But… I just don’t know.”

To this, he did not reply, but went on puffing his pipe with his face turned towards the window. He heard him clear his throat once or twice, and at some point of time, I even suspected him blowing his nose discreetly, but of this I could not be entirely sure. Whatever it was that he was contemplating, I could merely sit and wait for his next move. I took up the newspapers after a while, but the letters were swimming in front of my eyes, and so I remained staring into nothingness, until the memories swept up once more.

*

We spent many a night together in his tent, Hassan and I, until we were separated by the cruel hands of war, and never even once did we dare get closer than in that fateful first night. We did explore each other’s body with our hands, but we had of course to remain fully clothed, because the danger of being exposed was too great. And the kisses we shared were equally shy, albeit sweeter than anything I had experienced before. But apart from that, we talked, our voices low and hushed, lest we were overheard, and we shared about everything we had ever felt and thought, as if we were more than brothers, like twins, like nothing I had ever known. 

Once, Hassan confirmed that he felt comparably strange about this circumstance, as he had grown up to be a warrior, and never trusted anyone in his life the way he trusted me, nor had he ever had a chance to relish such kind of intimacy as we shared. The nomad tribes were not famous for their romantic feelings, and their marks of favour, even among married couples, culminated in an obvious tendency to replicate on a regular base, but he assured me that even a kiss was quite a rarity among his people. And yet, we shared all that, and we both missed it dearly when we were torn apart. 

Upon being wounded and consequently transported to India, I had believed that I would never see my Arabian friend again, and when I finally came back to London, I must admit that there were times during which I had almost forgotten about his existence. Only when I allowed myself to wallow in reminiscences did I remember his face - until one night when there was a knock at my door, and I the receptionist told me there was a gentleman to see me in the foyer. I grudgingly went downstairs and found myself face to face with Hassan. 

Presently, I remember clearly what I felt and did when I saw him standing in that foyer, clad in Western clothes, quite a gentleman, smiling at me out of a somewhat emaciated face, yet clearly recognizable as the one friend I had shared with all the things I had never told anyone else. I myself was poorly dressed in an oversized suit, and I had hastily put on my coat, for I had not expected a late guest and feared for the worst. After the initial shock (for that it doubtlessly was, to see him here after all these years), I must admit that my mind was filled with a profound feeling of happiness that I had missed dearly for too long a time, and I immediately accompanied my friend to his dwelling. We took a cab to his humble abode, somewhere near the docks, where he almost pulled me inside, and we hurried to his bedroom hand in hand, without uttering so much as a word.

Up in his little room, he cast aside his hat and jacket, and without further ado we were locked in an embrace that could have withstood an earthquake. And then something strange, yet quite explicable happened: all our precautions cast aside, we found ourselves engaged in a kiss that lasted over the locking of his door and the shedding of our clothes, until we were lying down on his little bedstead, already heavily aroused by both the unexpected reencounter and the anticipation that had built up during the drive. There was no further hesitation on both sides, as if we knew that we had done enough to breach every law already, and there was no need to hold back now. 

This time, I limited my explorations of his body not to my hands only, but I wanted to feel and taste him with my lips and tongue, too, and as I had not seen my dear friend for such a long time, I inspected and hailed every inch of his body with adequate reverence, until he lay squirming under my comparably light weight, and laughing softly, regarding the boldness of my administrations. Tables turned, and he did quite the same with me, but he did not content himself with caressing my skin with his lips. Soon, his attention was focused on the one part of me that was eagerly expecting further interest, and his soft lips applied the respective care with such an ardour that I could hardly keep myself from crying out. And still, none of us had uttered a single word, after all that time. It was as if we were still in that tent, which demanded us to remain silent.

I cannot tell why, but it seemed to be the most natural thing in the world for me to finally turn and offer myself to him, as I had always imagined that this would be the only way for Hassan and me to finally unite, and while I was in India, I had often dreamt of such a preposterous position. A lubricant of some kind was found and applied; I honestly cannot recall what it was, and I suspect it was something he had bought beforehand, as I now recall an intricate little box that had been standing on the nightstand. There was neither need nor time for any other preparation, and apart from an expected amount of pain, I finally shared with Hassan the most illegal, yet most satisfying way of unification that possibly exists on earth.

Neither of us wanted to sleep that night, and when we were both spent and tired, we still remained wide awake, for fear that the night might end too soon, and we would never have the pleasure to do this again. Finally, in the early morning hours, I must have fallen asleep nonetheless, because I awoke to the touch of a damp cloth between my thighs. When I opened my eyes, I saw Hassan sitting by my side, cleaning my legs and private parts with utmost care, and his dark slender body, still glistening with the moisture of the nightly pleasures, was the most beautiful sight I had ever seen. Growing aware of the imminent pleasure his presence gave to me, he finished his administrations quite hastily, and we resumed our nightly explorations. We talked much later, and only after weeks did he confide in me to have sold all he had in order to come to me.

From then on, I ventured to meet Hassan as often as I could, risking my reputation, and I only stopped involving in those wild hours with him for a certain time after I had moved in with Sherlock Holmes. The magic of our friendship, however, survived even this grave change in my life, as Hassan, who was certainly as jealous as any a man can be, agreed to my wish to remain a platonic lover only, if such a thing is possible. I believe he loved me to such a degree that he would not risk losing me, should he not agree to my wishes. And thus, we remained secret friends, while I felt that there was someone else in my life, who soon developed into the one person upon whom I bestowed my entire love. How Hassan was able to live with this, I cannot say. It is a sign of his greatness that he endured all of it, and that he even remained my faithful friend after I told him that I had desperately fallen in love with Holmes.

However, the more time I spent with Holmes, the more desperate did I become to share these worldly pleasures with a man again, and the mere idea of sharing them with Holmes (even though the concept was more than tempting) was clearly out of the question. And thus, finally I went to bed with Hassan again, always fearing to be caught by my indefatigable detective, and I believe I only escaped his scrutiny with the cunning help of my Arabian friend, the expertise of whom in such matters I knew (even if he never told me about their source). It thus did not really take me by surprise to learn that he had managed to follow Holmes without his knowledge, and that the two of them had finally come to talk. 

I desperately needed to settle this, but I still had no clue how to undertake such stirring a journey. It was Holmes who had made the first steps, and it was my duty as his faithful friend to make the next ones. But how I should do this, it simply escaped me. Once more, I was on the verge of shying away, as the mere thought of touching Holmes, and especially his private parts, was an enticing (and arousing) idea as such, but it also came close to a sacrilege. But how on earth could I tell him this without making an utter fool of myself?

To be continued…


	6. Second Hassan Sequel

Watson

It was the next evening, or maybe some nights later, the accurate date of which I cannot recall, but as it is of no importance for the story, I may content myself with the fact that our newly won understanding was still young, and the memories of our first kiss fresh and lovely. And yet, nothing else had followed that kiss, and we had spent the past hours (or days, as the case may be) in a manner of utmost chastity, me because I did not dare venture any further, and Holmes probably because he waited for me to make the next move. We were sitting in front of the fireplace, as was our habit whenever the two of us had a free evening, and I had been trying to read the newspapers for quite some time, however my mind went astray time and again: I longed to share more with Holmes, much more than a kiss, and at the same time I recoiled in horror from what I would ask of him, and what the consequences might do to his mind and soul. 

The voice of my dear friend and partner called me from my musings. “You've been staring at the same paragraph for the past six and a half minutes, Watson,” Holmes stated, bestowing me with an inquisitive glance that certainly was Hassan’s equal in every way. 

I caught myself sighing, and folding the offending newspaper that had been resting in my hands so uselessly for the past minutes, I looked at him with what I regarded as both apology and ashamedness. “I am sorry, Holmes,” I said, feeling my face grow hot. 

“No need to apologize, my dear fellow,” Holmes promptly retorted.

“But I do need to apologize,” insisted I and sighed again, expecting the familiar exploration of my mind and soul. He would soon find out all about my reservations, and I dreaded whether he would approve of them. Well, it could not be helped, as his sharp intellect would discover everything, no matter how much I squirmed, and presently Holmes seemed to be in such high spirits that I might just be lucky enough to escape his chidings.

“Not that I am aware,” he said amiably and started to stuff his pipe.

I looked at him, aware that by now I was blushing furiously. “You know what I mean,” I said feebly, even though I did not really have a clue, and I tried to underline my helpless words by equally helpless gesturing. 

“If you're feeling inadequate,” Holmes said cheerfully, “Let me assure you that I consider this a temporary setback at worst.”

I almost jumped at those words, for it was as if he had once more seen into the very core of my mind, and yet I had to gainsay. “Inadequate! But... by no means!” I thusly exclaimed, knowing it was a white lie, and hating myself for that.

“Well what then?” Holmes said calmly, lighting his pipe and sucking at it contemplatively. It was, I must admit, an utterly enticing sight to watch his thin yet inviting lips enclose the pipe stem that enthusiastically. When I detected myself staring, I immediately tore myself away from the image, forcing my head to turn to the side. 

“It is just that, I somehow... it's so... vulgar,” I spat out, giving in to what had been bothering my for the past hours. “And you are so... precious.”

At this, Holmes looked at me with confusion and concern. “I'm sorry?” he said, his tone of voice verging on a chuckle. “I understood you said something about me being precious. You're not being serious, are you?”

This was just too much for me to bear: to feel like betraying the one I loved by the love itself was one thing, but to be scorned by the same was quite another. On an impulse, I flung away the newspaper and kneeled in front of him, if only to show him my sincerity.

Holmes immediately jumped up, grabbed me by my forearms and pulled me to my feet, as if I was no more than a rag doll. “None of that, dear chap,” he said sternly. “I beg you.”

“But – It's true,” I insisted, feeling my eyes grow hot. “I love you too much. I cannot expose you to this vulgarity.”

In contrast to his former sardonic demeanour, Holmes remained earnest now. “I suppose it wouldn't help if I told you that I've been exposed to a lot worse than that, and not by my choice,” He said. “But maybe I can induce you to reconsider by asking you to do it.” He squared his shoulders and looked me in the eye. “Watson, be vulgar with me.”

I considered my options. If I turned him down, he would probably take it very personally, and apart from never hearing the end of it, I would this time really insult him. And was it not what I had wanted? If not, why would I tell him about my misgivings in the first place? I had but one option: to kiss him, and thus I obeyed his words by presenting Holmes an adequate demonstration of my expertise on osculation.

At last, Holmes surfaced for air, breathing deeply while leaning against my shoulder. “That's better. Now, what else might I say? Watson, give rein to your base instincts and ravish me.”

“Wait,” I said, feeling a boyish grin spread over my face – and in immediate and rather urgent heat along my groin. “I need to lock the door first.”

“Capital idea,” Holmes stated.

Walking with quite some difficulty, I locked the door, then drew the blinds and curtains, and only then did I allow myself to walk back to my love, discarding of my jacket on the way, and I must admit that I consequently was so impatient that I sent buttons flying: my own as well as Holmes'. 

“I always knew there were undiscovered depths about you,” I heard Holmes say, but his comments were soon drowned out by my labial administrations. For this, we did not take our time to get to the bedroom, but we used the great opportunity of a bearskin rug (a present of one of Holmes’ wealthier clients), which was lying invitingly in front of the fireplace. Following his command, yet still hesitant about doing something that could soil him, I worshipped every inch of Holmes’ body with my lips, heating both his and my desire, until I helped him over the edge, leaving the two of us spent and utterly content.

 

The fire was crackling softly on the grate, and I was lying on the cosy fur, with my thoroughly worshipped and presently rather blissed-out new lover resting his head on my chest, when I heard Holmes mutter: “Not too vulgar for you, I perceive.” 

I closed my arms around him and kissed his brow. “I love you too.”

*****

 

Later that same night, I was lying restlessly in Holmes' bed, to which we had finally managed to retreat after the fire had burned down, leaving the bearskin cosy, but cold. I assumed my good friend sleeping soundly, while I could find no rest, as another image was presently overlying the recent one: that of my dear friend Hassan, and what we had been sharing. The thought of him whiling away the time while waiting for my visit was indeed a saddening one, even though I had a pretty good reason to desert him. Moreover, I would have loved to pay him another visit, yet I could not dare to expose myself to his keen eye, for he would doubtlessly detect my new disposition at a glance: it would not be unexpected, of course, yet it would cause me considerable discomfort. And yet, a part of me still longed to see him. I only realized that I cursed when the word had already slipped my lips.

There was a soft movement in my arms, and without opening his eyes Holmes said: “I suggest you talk to him.”

With a start, I exclaimed: “How do you –“ But then I stopped again, realizing my misconception. “It is obvious, isn't it?” I thus added.

“Indeed,” Holmes said, his voice sounding sleepy, with an almost feline purr I had rarely heard before.

“What do I do?” I said with no little desperation. “He is my friend. I love him. Not as I love you,” I hastened to add, “but…” I sighed once more. “I owe him.”

“Talk to him,” Holmes said and yawned. “And remember.” Now he opened his eyes and looked at me, and his stare was as intense as if he had not just been resting on my bosom. Once more, he reminded me of a cat. “I do not share.” His voice was full of determination, but even if it had not been, I would have known that he never allocated any of his acquisitions, presently in the shape of me, to anyone else.

“I know,” I thus said. “And I already talked to him. The point is, he might act rashly. And this, I do not want.”

“Short of keeping an eye on him all day long, there's not much you can do about that if this is the case. He's a grown man,” Holmes said, closing his eyes again and arranging himself with the blanket.

“I must tell you something, Holmes,” I began, trying to ignore his insinuation that we had discussed the matter sufficiently. “Hassan sold his -”

“Falcon,” Holmes interrupted me, finishing my sentence, but without opening his eyes again. “I know. I am sorry. But I must admit I am feeling singularly disinclined to help him.”

Now it was me who fidgeted with the blanket, and I stared at the ceiling in order to express my indignation. “Well, in fact, I still am his friend,” I said. “And he came to London because of me. And now, he is here. And of course I will help him.”

I felt Holmes’ hand pat mine. “Oh, I am sorry, my dear fellow,” he said. “I know you will. I should never expect anything else from you.” There was a pause, filled only with our calm breathing and the first morning sounds carrying up from the street. Then, when I was almost dozing off once more, Holmes said, “You could introduce him to Lestrade.”

I must admit that the mere thought of it made me stare and then laugh hysterically. But at least my dear friend had not lost his sense of humour, and thus I put my arm around his shoulder, pressing his lean body against mine with utter relief. “Very funny, my dear chap,” I said betwixt waves of laughter. “But actually not such a bad idea. Only... not Lestrade. Because he's with Gregson.”

Holmes, who was resting his head tightly against my chest, snorted. “Gregson would wish that.”

“Seriously, now,” I said, trying to compose myself again. “Do you really think we could play matchmaker for Hassan? He is a bright boy, you know that. He won't be fooled, and I don't want to hurt his pride.”

Holmes yawned into my shoulder. “Anybody can be fooled, Watson, given sufficient skill and motivation.”

“Ah, you're tough,” I said. “And whom would you propose?”

“I can think of half a dozen men right off the top of my head. I -”

“Half a dozen men, to stand in for ME?” I interrupted him huffily. “Well thank you very much, my dear friend.”

Holmes lifted his head and looked at me. “For me, there is only you. For Hassan, it's a different thing.” And even though I still felt a slight anger inside of me, because he had thought it so easy to replace me, I felt this sentiment being shoved aside by a new wave of warmth concerning this unexpected declaration of love, so rare from his lips.

“Is it, now?” I said, trying a little pout.

“Oh my dear chap, don't be hurt,” Holmes ejaculated. “You and I, we have history. Years of history. You and Hassan, that was, what, a few weeks? That can be replaced, I am sure of it.”

“But, it's been years!” I retorted meekly.

“Years?” Holmes repeated. “Really? Hm.” He closed his eyes again, frowning sulkily.

I kissed his temple and admitted grumpily: “But you're right, it's different.”

This time, Holmes did not lift his head, but remained hiding his nose in the fold of my armpit. Yet I could hear by the tone of his voice that he was utterly content with what he heard. “I thought so.” 

Holding him close once more, I allowed myself to join him in this moment of mirth, while my thoughts struggled for a closing with regards to the topic we had just been discussing. “I am glad to see you happy once more,” I muttered, feeling new tendrils of sleepiness embrace me. “But we must find someone.” And then I fell asleep.

*


	7. A Corpse and a Cop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Strange things are going on at the docks, and Watson remains rather clueless... but not entirely...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Comment: In contrast to the original Clueless Watson, you will observe that I used the past tense, just like I did in the other Hassan sequels, and also the third person in some sequences. I believe it just came easier once I started to develop this story into a ‘real’ plot. Please bear in mind whilst reading this that it’s my first attempt to actually write a criminal story, a talent with which I do not believe myself endowed, however I chose to give it a try for art’s sake. So… I count on your benevolence.

The body was still warm, in spite of the wet chill of a dreary night at the docks, where thick wisps of fog were emerging from the narrow alleys, drifting along the wharves and over the murky water, turning the boats into bulky mountains that were moving on the water like massive ghosts. The man was lying with his face down in a puddle, the contents of which Hassan Raman could not yet discern. Maybe it was water, maybe his blood, and most probably both. He must have suffered a fatal wound somewhere near an artery, and Raman’s skilled fingers sought in vain for a last faint pulse. Raman let go of the body and cursed under his breath: the man had been one of his best workers, this was the second murder in a fortnight, and he had not been in time to prevent it.

When he heard the soft footsteps on the wet pavement, he knew that it was too late to flee. He got up from his crouching position, ready to fight, but the man who approached did not in the least look like a policeman, nor did he seem willing to start a brawl. In fact, he was too well dressed to be even an inspector, and Raman relaxed a bit, while keeping on his guard; it could hardly be a coincidence that he was passing by at this time of night. And if this guy was no copper, what else could he be – but a criminal? Raman’s body tensed when the man drew closer, then relaxed once more as he discerned that his probable opponent was half his age and at least a foot smaller.

“Don’t you worry,” the young man said, lifting his hat casually as a greeting. “I’ve been watching you, and I know you didn’t do it.” He looked down at the corpse and shrugged. “Too late, I see. It’s a pity, really. And the question remains: Who dunnit?”

Raman frowned at the stranger’s accent and took a closer look. He was dressed American style, with a popular kind of hat Hassan had learned to recognize, and he wore a long coat that did not agree with the style of an English gentleman. His accent, however, was not what the Arab knew as American. Hassan wondered from whence the rolling ‘r’ derived. He once more looked into this strangely dark face that stood up to his own inquiring look with innocent frankness. “You are of Southern origin,” Raman stated, with a hint of question in his voice. Hazel eyes met his deep brown ones, and from under the hat peeked a shock of dark hair. A hint of freckles, in spite of the olive skin. 

“Yeah, Ballincollig, as far South as you can get,” the young man replied gruffly, yet his expression remained calm and friendly. “In Ireland, that is. I’m Irish, but my ancestors came from… other parts. Well done, mister detective, but you can’t know everything. And nice to meet you, too.” He smiled, revealing a row of even white teeth, and extended a slender gloveless hand. “John Carrigan’s the name.” 

Staying wary, in case he was mistaken, Raman accepted the hand and introduced himself. Carrigan seemed unfazed by the name, yet he inclined his head politely. Then, his body tensed abruptly and he looked at Raman, his expression now recalling that of a falcon. “Hurry up,” he said. “The police are coming. Hey, they’re getting faster these days. We don’t want them to find us here.”

Raman did not hesitate. He would have left the scene in any case, as no Scotland Yard man would have believed him. In any event, he was enjoying sharing this situation with Carrigan. Together, they hurried along past the warehouses until they found a deserted one, and after one well-aimed kick by Hassan, they were able to force the dilapidated door open. Shortly after they had closed it behind them, Raman heard the police whistle. He shook his head. “They shout and bustle, but they never find the culprit.”

Carrigan nodded gravely. “Yep, that’s right. That’s why I’m here.”

“You are a detective,” Raman said.

“Yep,” Carrigan answered, grinning broadly. “That’s right, sir, employed by the shipping company. Pinkerton’s at your service.”

Raman frowned. He had heard that name before: one of them had found the first corpse a couple of days ago, and rumour had it they were employees of a big detective firm from overseas. For an instant, the memory of his late colleague flicked past in front of his mind’s eye. “He was a good man,” he said.

“So you knew him?”

“Yes, he worked with me.” Hassan halted and looked at the Irishman. “How come you did not see the culprit? I thought you were watching.”

“Well,” Carrigan shrugged and smiled. “I was watching you. And now I know you didn’t do it.”

Raman frowned again. “I know that. You should have been watching the docks instead. What kind of detective are you?” Instead of listening to an answer, he lifted his hand as a call for silence. The police were still there, making a half-hearted attempt to search the grounds. They would not find anything, as it had started to rain once more. “Do all Irishmen have freckles?” he then asked, keeping his voice low and his face straight. 

“What?” Carrigan stared at him for a couple of seconds, his eyes gleaming. Then he chuckled and rummaged in his pockets. “Want to share a locofoco?” he said, and when Hassan’s face remained politely blank, he waved a half smoked cigar in front of the Arab’s face and laughed softly. 

*

Watson

Once more, the city was in the clutches of a vile autumnal tempest, with dark clouds turning day into grey night and hunting each other across the skies, the rain relentlessly lashing at the windows, and the storm howling through the streets like the trumpets of Jericho. In short: it had not been a pleasant day to be out and about, and I was happy to be finally back home again, with my hat and coat dripping under the hat-stand, forming a cold puddle as my feet slowly warmed back to life in front of the fireplace. 

I had left Holmes alone on the present case, which he intended to follow through as always in spite of the despicable weather. He had assured me that I need not accompany him on this part of the mission. In fact, he had made it rather clear that I would merely be in his way while he spent the night at the docks, lying in wait and observing. Following a surprising new impulse, he had even deigned to add that he did not intend to expose himself to any kind of danger, lest I lurked nearby to save him, and I trusted that his voice was for once without a trace of irony.

What a curious case this was, ranking indeed among the most bizarre in our experience. Holmes had asked me to inspect a corpse, and as always I had dutifully complied. It seemed that one of the dockworkers had been stabbed, and he wanted my opinion, and in particular my professional expertise. Of course I grew tense when I learned about the stabbing, but this time Holmes had hastened to add that he would certainly not have me inspect my dear friend Hassan.

The weapon -- a commonplace flick knife -- had still been stuck in the corpse when it was found. After inspecting them both I told Holmes it seemed that the knife had been extracted after the stabbing, only to be inserted into the same wound sometime later. This struck me as odd, and I was even more puzzled to see that Holmes did not seem surprised by my revelation. He merely nodded and thanked me for my astuteness, and then he told me to go home. 

There I was, stretching in front of the fireplace, knowing that it would take more than one night for my clothes to dry, and watching my shoes, stuffed with the latest newspapers, steaming in front of the grate. The wind was rattling the shutters, the fire was crackling, and a good cognac was reheating my entrails; yet my thoughts were elsewhere, with my dear friend, who presently did not have the benefit of a cosy fireplace and a warming drink. I could only hope that he at least had a roof over his head. 

Whilst I was sitting there, lost in thoughts while staring into the playing flames, my mind strayed, and I suddenly realized that I was no longer thinking of my dear Holmes. Instead the image of Hassan kept rising in front of my mind’s eye. Now in spite of the new developments and uninviting weather, the thought of him filled my heart and soul with an intense, I daresay almost burning desire to see him again. I had to face the truth: I still loved him, and I did not only want to see him, but also to hear his voice and tell him that I did not intend to give him up as a friend, although I had decided to stay with Holmes, and Holmes alone. I also yearned to ascertain that he did not feel too great a pain at my decision, and that he was safe and sound.

Thus, against all the laws of reason, I ripped the soaked paper out of my shoes, then shrugged into my damp coat, and feeling a certain survival instinct in spite of my hurry, I put on my dry spare hat. Then I went out into the storm once more. The wind seemed to drive me on, together with my iron will to see Hassan tonight, no matter at what cost. And so, I came to stand in front of his door some time later, with my face wet and cold, my eyes hot, and my body drenched to the bone, and I surely did not only shiver because of the cold, but also because I dreaded what our conversation would hold.

Hassan opened the door to me before I even knocked; I was hardly surprised at that, as it had happened so often in years past. His perceptiveness could match Holmes’ own, and it pained me to be reminded of this now. He leant forward, craning his neck into the street, his eyes flicking left and right as always, then he pulled me inside by my lapels as if he was dragging a wet stray dog into the house. The door closed behind us with a soft thud, and I remained standing in the small entrance way, unsure what to do next.

“Undress,” Hassan commanded strictly, and although I would have felt a strong longing for his close and undressed presence only a few weeks ago, this now hit me as strange. When I hesitated, he silently directed his outstretched finger towards the puddle that was already forming around my shoes, and only then did I realize in what a drenched state I was, and I hurried to comply with his order. 

“All?” I said while taking off my coat.

“Not necessarily so,” he answered. He waited patiently while I shed my dripping outer layers, then gathered the damp lot in his arms and disappeared into an adjacent room. I tiptoed into the main room, trying to get some feeling back into my cold toes and fingers. When Hassan re-emerged, he carried a comfortable caftan, which I donned, trying to display at least an inkling of the composure that I saw in my friend. Then, and only then, I looked around the room, and the arrangement of cushions as well as the contents of a pewter tablet, two half empty tea glasses and the remains of a meal, placed by the fireside made me aware that I was not Hassan’s only guest. Whoever had been there before me had either fled upon my arrival, or else was still present, waiting in the other room.

I could feel my ears grow hot, as I once more realized that I seemed to be the only one in my vicinity who dwelt in utter obliviousness – and selfishness besides. 

“I should not have come,” I said, and heard my voice tremble. I must admit that upon the revelation that someone had replaced me – and after so short a time – there arose not only a number of questions in my mind, but also a highly unwelcome feelings of jealousy. I knew this was the last thing on earth I should allow myself, however, and thus I tried to put on a merry mien and get myself out of this situation without doing further harm.

“Yes, you should not have come,” Hassan said, looking up. There was a dark expression in his eyes, which I could not fathom. “And you should be aware that you are being watched.”

Forcing a smile, I answered, “I am aware of that. Yet I wanted to come here once more, only to… well, set things straight.” I tried to swallow, but my throat seemed too dry. Thus, I added with a slightly croaky voice, “I should have shown some patience, should I not?”

Hassan hesitated, then he approached and put one hand on my shoulder in a brotherly gesture. When he looked at me again, his expression softened to some extent. “My good and impatient Scottish friend,” he said quietly. “Good things come to those who wait. You are not responsible for me.” 

Once more, I started. I must admit that up to that moment, I had not spent any thought on the position to which I had brought myself, nor to its consequences. I was, indeed, behaving like a worried uncle. I had merely followed my innermost convictions, notwithstanding the weather, and only now the voice of reason, once more in the shape of my dear friend Hassan, shook me from my stupor. This time, I felt myself blush deeply. “I do not know what brought me here,” I confessed. “But I… I wanted to make sure that you are well, and I wanted to once more state that…”

“You are my friend,” he interrupted me. “This is all that needs be said.”

I wanted to add something, but he put his finger to my lips, just as he had done so many years ago, to silence me. Back then, this intimate movement would have led to a kiss, and for an instant I was almost waiting for it to come. But instead, Hassan only shook his head in mild reproach and looked away. “Yes,” he said. “And I am your friend, and sometimes you are a sentimental fool, John Watson.” At that moment, I heard a soft coughing from the adjacent room, and another hot wave crept up my face. Hassan’s voice was almost drowned by the rushing of my own blood. “You can stay here until your clothes have stopped dripping,” I heard him say. “But then you must leave.” He got up and disappeared past a curtain into the other room.

Thus, I was left there on my own, full of remorse, and feeling as superfluous as a goitre. I was standing here, in front of a strange fire, while Hassan was tending to whoever sat in the other room, when all the while I could have stayed at home. The whole enterprise bordered on the ridiculous. And yet, he proved to be a true friend indeed, even under these strained conditions maintaining his nobility and sparing the both of us further embarrassment and the need for lengthy explanations. With a taste of bitterness I once more realized that sometimes my powers of observation were even less than Holmes used to account them. In all probability they were nil. 

Sighing, I leant against the chimneypiece, hoping that my clothes would soon stop dripping. I felt utterly lost and longed to be with Holmes. Hassan did not bother to come back to me, alas! he left me alone with my own bad conscience, and I did not even hear a sound from the adjacent room. After half an hour, I silently dressed (my clothes were still wet, but far from the dreadful state in which I had shed them) and crept out of the house without bidding its owner good-bye.

*


	8. Enlightenment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All will be well?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gratitude: Thanks to sweet Elena_C, the main dialogue between Watson and Holmes was utter fun and is… well, you’ll see. ;o) Thanks to dear Daylyn, the story makes much more sense now, including character voices and timeline. Last but certainly not least, timetiger was responsible for the general neatness, including grammar and choice of words: thank you for being one helluva beta reader!  
> Without the three of you, I wouldn’t have dared post this story, anyway.

Watson

Not only was Holmes back home, but he too was sitting in front of the fireplace, and humming a melody. I had hoped to meet him there, and I was relieved to find him in such a good mood. At the same time I felt like a dog that had run off and gone a long way round the city, and now was slinking back to its owner in a state of utter remorse. My dear friend immediately added to my dismay, for he did not only scrutinize me in his usual manner, but he also inhaled deeply, unmistakeably because he wanted to check my bodily odour – a circumstance that led to large amounts of heat forming behind my cheeks.

“Morning, Holmes,” I said with a sheepish smile.

“Atrocious night to be up and about, my dear fellow,” said Holmes.

I felt that I was blushing more furiously, as even my ears started burning. “Yes.” I felt a lump forming in my throat and I tried to fight it by coughing and swallowing, which did not improve matters.

“You’ve been at Hassan’s,” said Holmes. 

I felt the room commence to spin, and anticipated that my world would start to crumble in the next moment. I had to sit down, and though I surely needed one, I felt too feeble to pour myself a glass of brandy.

Holmes’ voice carried to my ears over the rush of my own blood. “Is there anything you need to tell me?” 

I realized that his tone of voice was not as chiding as I had expected, but rather of an inquisitive yet friendly quality. After all that we had shared and exchanged, I could not believe that I would get away with an evasive answer. Instead I ought to disclose my most hidden desires, and the embarrassing fact that it was only due to my dear Hassan that nothing crucial had happened between us. Yet to acknowledge anything along these lines was certainly impossible. Thus, I swallowed once more and looked at Holmes meekly, but I had to refrain from giving an answer.

Holmes looked at me again, waiting politely. When I still did not answer his question, he took his time in relighting his pipe, and then turned to look at me again and said, “Well, did you talk to him?”

“Yes,” I replied.

“Was it necessary?”

“No.”

“Did you want to have intercourse with him?”

“Did I – what?” My heart stopped, and at the same time I felt my face go damp. I had to mop my brow.

“It’s a simple enough question,” Holmes said.

“I did not!” I exclaimed.

“Ah,” he said, turning away from me. “Breakfast?”

I could not believe my ears. However could he take this so lightly? Secretly, I was still waiting for the bubble to burst, and on the other hand his merry air contributed even more to my own bad conscience. Thus I remained utterly silent and morose and waited for things to develop.

“I believe there are fresh mackerels,” Homes said. “You are looking a little peaked.”

I could hear myself mutter something under my breath. I believe it was “Oh my god,” but in my present state, I was not actually able to think even one coherent thought. 

“Something wrong with mackerels? Too heavy in the stomach, maybe?” I heard Holmes say, and for the first time this morning there was a slight edge of irony to his voice.

It was all I needed to come to my senses, and almost kicking back the chair into which I had dropped, I jumped up. “This is too much, Holmes!”

“If you don’t want mackerels, you only have to say so,” Holmes said, the corners of his mouth twitching.

Once more, I could feel my face growing hotter and my cheeks damp, but this time it was from tears of gratefulness. I sat down on the sofa and buried my face in my hands. A moment later, I felt a pair of sinewy arms around me, and Holmes’ soft voice near my ear. “There, there, my dear fellow. It can’t possibly be this bad. You do not need to tell me anything. I can see you are terribly distraught.” I was aware that he used the soothing tones he usually reserved for his clients, but it helped me calm down.

At last, I took a deep breath and blew my nose. “I am dreadfully sorry. But I… I should not have gone there at all. It was not necessary, as you said.”

“I know.” This time, his tone of voice was rather clipped. “It was dreadful to follow you again out into the rain. On the other hand, you provided a useful alibi.”

I should have known, yet this statement came so dryly that I was glad to be able to hide my face in his lapels.

Holmes looked at me, I could literally feel his inquisitive glance sear into my forehead. “You did not, I mean, actually, intend to do anything stupid, did you?”

“What?” I said meekly, but did not dare look up. The whole matter was far too embarrassing.

“Anything…criminal,” Holmes said.

I had not been sure where he was heading, but now I found that this was all he really cared about – for now. Maybe this was what Holmes meant by ‘sharing’. And if this was the case, it was quite an easy task for me to be honest, just as I had promised myself I would be. Thus, I heaved a sigh of relief. “No, no, I did not,” I said. 

“I see,” Holmes stated, generously overlooking the challenge. “Then, if nothing happened, you have no reason to be ashamed. Conversation, after all, is not punishable, even is it is useless.”

“But I am ashamed,” I insisted. “I hate myself for making things that complicated.” I lifted my hands in the air, even though I immediately remembered that Holmes did not like dramatic gestures. 

“Well, Watson,” Holmes said. “You will be surprised to realize that you are more complicated than you believe.” He smiled for the flash of an instant, then waved away the matter with a flick of his elegant fingers. “Yes, yes, yes. And now, if you’re quite finished brow-beating yourself, maybe you will finally consent to taking some breakfast with me.”

I could still feel that I should not trust this display of understanding, and for fear of a sudden outburst, I had to make sure that this was it. “Are you not… hurt? Or… furious?” I asked quietly.

“Would you prefer me to be?” Holmes retorted.

“No,” I said. “Of course not.”

“Then I suggest you take your blessings where you can get them,” Holmes said, and this time his tone of voice was unmistakable. It had an ominous undertone which said ‘Yes I am angry, and yes I am hurt, but my self control is absolute.’ “And I am hungry,” he added aloud.

I know that I can be rather dull at times, but this does not mean that I cannot read the signs. Thus, I preferred to say nothing and hope that the entire incident would not leave a bad aftertaste. Holmes lighted his pipe once more, and I finally ventured to eat something and have a cup of tea. After some blissful silence, I thought it was time to pick up another topic. “I inspected that body.”

“You mean, the body of the fifth dockworker that was found dead?”

“The fifth,” I repeated. “Goodness me, I did not know!” So the body I had inspected was by no means the first one, but the fact that no one had found it necessary to inform me of this trifle did not actually take me by surprise. Once more, a momentary fear washed over me that one of those victims could have been my dear Hassan.

“Oh yes. Somebody’s discovering a new hobby.” I was glad to hear the Holmes’ spirits were already on the upsurge again. 

“Well, then one poor chap that I inspected was stabbed twice. So to say,” I said, trying to sound ominous, too, and rather proud of my findings. 

Holmes, however, did not pay attention to my report. In fact, he seemed to be far away in his thoughts, and he remained standing by the window for a while, staring outside. Then he turned to look at me. “There are altogether too many noses sniffing about,” he stated. 

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing,” Holmes said. “I have not enough data yet. But it seems I shall have to have a little talk with your very good friend about a certain habit he is developing.”

“But I can assure you that Hassan would never stab anyone. I mean, really, Holmes, you might be slightly annoyed with him, but blaming him for this…”

“You’re quite right.”

“What?”

“Nevertheless. Mackerels, and then the docks. Are you coming?”

“I wouldn’t miss this for the world.” And even though I still felt clueless with regard to Holmes’ insinuation, I was sincerely looking forward to once more accompanying him on his mission to fight crime. After all, a change of air would do both of us good; moreover, it would distract my troubled mind from the matters that stirred it so, even though I must admit that part of me also wanted to make sure that Hassan was prevented from falling victim to a fateful misunderstanding.

*

Holmes spent the better part of the day rummaging around the docks in search of clues. While he indeed found plenty of them, I was assigned the painful role of believing that his observations were pertinent to the crimes. Some time before dusk he took pity on my growling stomach and allowed us a sparse meal in one of the dockworkers’ pubs before setting out once more to chase the enemy. More than once while we strolled through the numerous alleys around the docks, I caught myself hoping to stumble across my good friend Hassan, if only to see that he was safe and sound, or else to persuade Holmes by his sheer noble presence that he was not the culprit.

When night fell, Holmes convinced me to retreat with him to a tool shed in an empty warehouse, for he was more than sure that another murder would take place that very night, and that it would happen somewhere near this very warehouse. I, of course, had no clue what had convinced him to choose this warehouse in particular. I did notice the cigar ends on the floor, but as I knew that Holmes on rare occasions smoked cigars, I could not tell whether he had been here before. 

The hours passed by slowly, as is usual when you are waiting for something to happen. It always reminds me of lying in the trench, waiting for the others to attack. The minutes seem to lengthen, the noise of your own breath appears obscenely loud, and the cold creeps into your clothes as if death’s bony fingers are already closing around you. And then – a sound aroused us from our wary wait: the groaning of a man.

Holmes, who seemed never to tire, was already hurrying towards the door, while I hastened to follow him. When we rushed around the next corner, we saw a man lying on the damp floor, with a knife sticking out of his chest. 

“Dear God,” I exclaimed, hasting to kneel down by his side in order to help him. But while I struggled to hold his head, I could already see that I was too late.

“Stay with him,” Holmes hissed, standing over us like a hawk. “The murderer is still here.” And with this, he went off to pursue what I presume was a fresh trail. 

I felt the victim’s hand go limp in mine, while he exhaled his last breath. When I lifted my head to look after Holmes, I saw a tall man extricate himself from the shadows behind him. The soft beam of a street lantern reflected off something in his hand, and to my horror I realized that he was holding a knife. 

“Holmes!” I shouted, but my dear friend had already turned to face his pursuer, and they immediately united in what I believed to be a fatal struggle.

And then I could hear another voice – familiar, loved, and presently rather strained: the voice of Hassan. “For heaven’s sake, stop fighting, man, I am not the culprit,” he shouted while trying to keep Holmes from disarming him. I daresay that even though I know Hassan is a formidable fighter, he would have lost the fight this time, were it not for his words. The effect was astounding: Holmes immediately halted in his tracks, and next the knife fell to the floor with a clatter. For one precious moment, it looked as if the two men I loved were embracing. 

Subsequently things happened in a rush. While I was still crouching by the dead man’s side, I watched my two friends standing there, coming to their senses again, when a sharp bang ripped through the silence. A fresh wave of horror washed over me when I realized that my dear Hassan was not standing upright any more, but rather sagging in Holmes’ arms, obviously hit by a shot. This time, I did not falter, but hurried to my friend’s side.

Holmes avoided my eyes when he handed Hassan over to me. “Take care of him,” he said while taking out his police whistle. And then he was gone in the fog. The things that ensued did not reach my troubled mind, apart from a vague awareness of some struggling and running going on behind us. I took it for granted that Holmes had spotted the real wrongdoer and was pursuing him, and within a couple of minutes the police had come to his aid. But all the while, I had eyes only for Hassan, who had been shot in the back, and whose dark and sensual eyes were for once not looking at me, but staring into nothingness. I could still feel his pulse, but it was weak. I cannot say what I felt, as I believe I did not feel anything, right then and there. My mind was as blank as it could ever be, with only one thought persisting: I must save him.

They said, afterwards, that they were hardly able to move Hassan, as I was holding his hand as if my very life depended on it. They told me that they brought us to St. Mary’s, even though I cannot recall moving my limbs. What I do remember, though, was the operation, which I performed myself, as I would not allow anyone else to touch him. I do not tell of this without shame, but the fact is that, after what seemed like hours of working on Hassan’s wound, I managed to extricate the bullet from his body, and be it by sheer luck or divine providence he survived. 

They also told me that I fainted after closing the wound, but all of this seems like a dream to me. I only came to many hours later, and found myself lying on a hospital bed next to my good friend Hassan, and Holmes and someone else were watching me. It seemed that I was still holding Hassan’s hand, or else must have seized it once more immediately after coming to from my stupor. But then, when my senses came back to me, I realized that it was Holmes’ slender and incomparably white fingers intertwined with mine, and with an ever so slight pang of guilt I also grew aware that I was relieved about this circumstance.

“Now Holmes,” I said, “you must enlighten me. I am pretty sure that you knew what was going on long before anyone else even had a clue.” My voice still sounded rather hoarse, but my mind was working perfectly well, and thus I was also well aware of the insinuation I secretly made. The private joke did not escape Holmes, either, and a glitter in his eye confirmed that he shared my amusement. But then his expression changed, as he was about to tell us about the mystery he, once more, had solved.

“I knew that it was not our good Mr Raman after I saw the first corpse,” he said. And before I could exclaim anything, he added, “Why, Watson, this is ridiculous. You, of all people, should have known that he is left-handed, and that the wound you inspected could not possibly be caused by him in any case, as he is also about a head taller than the assailed.” His eyes flicked to me for an instant. “Ah, I see that once more you were drawn to speculations rather than observing the facts at hand.”

He paused and looked across my bed to the gentleman standing to my right, closer to Hassan’s bed. “I presume you knew, Mr Carrigan,” he said, and the addressed chuckled as an answer, which I took as a yes. “Well then,” Holmes continued. “After this revelation it took me a couple of days to find out that there had been some discrepancies regarding the book-keeping of the shipping company. As you will recall, all the slain dockworkers had been working for the same company. You did not realize? Watson, I am worried about your powers of perception, really.”

“I did,” Carrigan said. His voice sounded at the same time friendly and keen, and distinctly Irish. “It was the Trevor Shipping Company that sent me, so that’s the easy part. What still takes me by surprise, Holmes, is how you found out that it was Mr Trevor himself who committed the murders.”

I could but look from one detective to the other (as I was by now convinced that Mr Carrigan was exactly that). Holmes inclined his head without a trace of irony and went on. “Believe me, it was no easy task, and I had the advantage of playing at home. Some bribery and some generous imbibing while appropriately disguised was necessary to get the information I needed: Mr Trevor did not deal with exotic animals only, but also with weapons; weapons that existed nowhere in his books. Some of the workers had come behind this discreditable fact, and they were planning to turn him over to the law. Probably blackmail was also involved. But Mr Trevor was too clever for that. He intended to stir up the dockworkers’ animosity against each other by making it look as if the culprit was one of them, and he almost succeeded.”

There was silence after Holmes had finished speaking, then Hassan’s dark voice rang out, still feeble, yet carrying the pride of a warrior. “I never believed that.”

Our heads turned towards him, and to my joy I found him sitting up in bed, pale but definitely out of danger. I also saw something else, with rather mixed feelings. The young detective Holmes had addressed as Carrigan seemed to be unusually merry about my good friend’s recovery. He had even taken Hassan’s hand. I felt Holmes’ fingers close around mine, as if to remind me of my place. My eyes met Hassan’s, and he smiled. Then he turned away and addressed Carrigan, all the while holding the young man’s hand as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

“I would die for a locofoco,” Hassan said. I take it this was a private joke, but when the two of them laughed heartily, I could but join in.

*


End file.
